


And The Devil Makes Three

by xfandomwritingsx



Category: The Boys (TV 2019)
Genre: Angst, F/M, Mentions of Pregnancy, Mentions of Sex, Reader has a named son, There is no Happy Ending Here
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-01
Updated: 2020-03-01
Packaged: 2021-02-28 00:42:31
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,510
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22974982
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/xfandomwritingsx/pseuds/xfandomwritingsx
Summary: Years after Butcher abandoned you, he finds out he left you with more than the thought he did.
Relationships: Billy Butcher/You
Comments: 5
Kudos: 143





	And The Devil Makes Three

**Author's Note:**

> First, I SUCK at accents and dialect so just… forgive me for Butcher not sounding like Butcher. Second, there is so much history between these two that doesn’t get explained and I’m sorry because it would be like a 10k long story if I did that and I just… can’t do it right now. Maybe another time. Third, I need more Billy Butcher. NEED.

You had been washing the dishes on a fucking Wednesday afternoon when your doorbell rang. It was mundane. It was ordinary. It was how you liked it now. But then you opened that damn door and the floor about came out beneath you as your stomach plummeted and your blood burned.

“You’ve got to be _fucking_ kidding me.” The rage in your voice is clear as a bell. Billy fucking Butcher turns around to face you instead of the rag tag team of men on your doorstep. The faded look on his face is replaced with a forced smile as your eyes meet.

“Hello, love.” 

You slam the door in his face. You hear muffled voices through the door and then a delicate, but very persistent knocking on the wood.

“Please,” Frenchie calls from the other side. “We won’t be long! Just let us in and talk to us for a few minutes! That’s it. Then we’ll leave you alone.” His knocking continues through his entire plea. A mixture of inconvenient curiosity and concern of what your neighbors will think cause you to throw the door open again.

“Five minutes,” you snap at them before walking away from the door, leaving them to shuffle in behind you and follow you to your living room. “The hell are you doing here?” Your bitterness is aimed at Butcher and judging by the way he doesn’t meet your eyes, he knows it.

“We just need some information,” M.M. Speaks first, softly. There’s something about his tone that doesn’t quite sit well with you, like he’s afraid to speak to you. Sure, you weren’t exactly welcoming to them on your doorstep, but your grudge wasn’t with all of them. Just the one. “I know you got out of the game and you don’t want anything to with us, but we could use your help.” You scoff loudly and cross your arms over your chest just to make sure you didn’t punch anyone, specifically the asshole in the leather jacket, currently wandering aimlessly around your living room while the others stayed politely near you. 

“Is that what you told them?” you ask coldly. “That I _left_?” M.M. And Frenchie exchange a confused look before looking back at Butcher. You haven’t felt like this in years. You hate it.

“I told them you were out of the game and moving on.” He says it so plainly, like it was the whole truth and you snap.

“ _You_ left! You fucked me one night and the next morning you were just gone. Ghosted me with a half-assed note about how it was better this way or some shit!” You turn your attention back to M.M. and Frenchie. “He ever tell you that?” The shell shocked looks on their faces clearly say he did no such thing. “ _He_ decided I was out of the game. _He_ kicked _me_ to the curb.”

“Yeah well, looks like it worked out pretty well for ya, didn’t it?” You turn sharply to glare at him and see he’s got one of the photos that was on your mantle in his hand, holding it up for you to see. A cold dread rushes down your spine and your anger subsides for a moment.

In his hand is a photo of you and a young boy with dark hair that looks a little too much like the man standing in front of you. Butcher’s eyes are hard and unreadable. You wait for him to say something, to do _anything_ just so you can move past the cold fear that’s slowly making you shrink down.

“Everyone get the fuck out now.” Your tone, though it waivers in the tiniest way, leaves no room for argument and the two men next to you seem ready to hang their heads and leave. But the new guy who followed them in, the doe-eyed young fella filled with optimism so sweet it makes you sick, steps towards you, briefly touching your elbow to bring your attention to him. You flinch at his touch and he withdraws quickly.

“Please, Miss…” he struggles to try and find your last name in his memory. He senses your impatience and moves on without it. “All we need is a name.” 

“Kid, I don’t know who you are, but you’re hanging with the wrong crowd.” His eyes drop to the floor, defeat slowly coming over him too. “My advice? Leave before he abandons you like a sick dog too.” 

“Told you she wasn’t gonna help,” Butcher says, an air of confidence in his voice that brings your anger flooding back over the fear. He gently puts the picture back and ushers all his boys back towards the front door. 

You don’t move from your spot, don’t walk them out, don’t do anything except stand there squeezing your arms over your chest and willing them all to go away. When you hear Butcher say, “I’ll follow in a minute,” your heart sinks. You don’t want to do this. Not now, not ever. 

His face is a stone when he stalks back into your living room, his own rage and confusion masked behind a blank expression that pierces through you. It threatens to make you feel guilty. You refuse to let him have that control over you, not anymore. You stare right back at him, waiting for his first move.

“How old is he?” There’s no question who he’s asking about

“It doesn’t matter.” You don’t have the patience to play dumb, but you’ll be damned if you make this easy on him. Your defiance breaks a little of his façade.

“Don’t fucking bullshit me,” he growls. “How old?”

“He turned three last month.” Your nails dig into the skin on your arm through the thin fabric of your sweater.

“Fucking hell!” He runs a hand over his face, his mind doing the quick and easy math to arrive at the answer he already knew. You let a little bit of your anger bubble past the surface.

“You don’t get to be fucking angry,” you snap at him. “You made your choice to walk away from me and anything and everything that came with me.” 

“It’s not like I knew you’d end up fucking pregnant!” He takes a step towards you and even though he’s still across the room from you, it feels like he’s too close. You finally release your arms, letting them flail up in an agitated fury.

“What difference does it make it if I ended up with a kid or not?” 

“He’s fucking mine, innit he?”

“No!” you scream at him, something within you snapping. Years of anger and resentment flooding out. “He’s _mine_. He is mine and no one else’s.” Your screaming drops to a deadlier tone. “I went through the pregnancy alone. I went through labor and nearly dying when I gave birth alone. I did the sleepless nights, the diaper changes, my fucking recovery, his entire three years of life all alone. He is mine.” You point your finger into your chest even though the emphasis is unneeded. Your fingers on your other hand have curled into a fist, squeezing into a white knuckled grip around themselves. 

“He’s got my blood,” Butcher says slowly. You shake your head.

“That doesn’t make you his father.”

“Legally, sweetheart, it does.” He tilts his head and that sickly sweet, better-than-you voice he uses makes you bark out a bitter laugh. 

“What, Butch?” you ask, utterly amused. “Are you going to take me to court?” He flinches back just the slightest bit and it gives you a sick twist of pleasure. “Want to stand in front of a judge and explain why your lifestyle is so conducive to raising a child?”

“Yeah well maybe it coulda been had I fucking known.” His eyes are still hard and angry, but they falter and look away from you for just a moment.

“I saved you,” you tell him slowly. “I saved you the struggle and the guilt of saying you’re going to be there for us and then not following through because you can’t let go of your crusade. I saved him a lifetime of _where’s daddy?_ and _why isn’t daddy here?_ ” You feel the sadness creeping back in and the tears you thought were over years ago start to well back up, your heart breaking all over again. “I saved him from looking out a window, watching you leave and wondering why he isn’t good enough for you.” 

There’s a short silence where his eyes soften and you know your words hurt him. Not because they’re mean, but because they’re true. His eyes keep flitting to the pictures in the room, looking at the boy he doesn’t know. You wipe your eyes with the back of your hand.

“You didn’t even give me the choice.” It sounds more pained than he meant it to, his anger melting away. 

“Kind of like how you didn’t give me a choice in leaving?” There’s still a little bite in your voice, but you try to subdue it. “What did you want me to do? Call the phone you’d already ditched? Go to the safe house you’d already burned? Did that.” You pause, considering if you should tell him the next bit. You feel yourself starting to tremble and without thinking about it, you find yourself walking towards him. “You think I should have tracked you down? I did.” Your voice is much softer now as you get closer. “I had your confirmed location in one hand and a pregnancy test in the other.” You put your hands out as if you’re still holding those items and the emotions of that day come flooding back. “And the moment that stick read positive, it was over. I threw out that piece of paper with your address on it and I never looked back.” You feel tears spill onto your cheeks and you try to not break down. Butcher won’t look at you, actively keeping his eyes anywhere else. “Tell me I made the wrong choice,” you whisper, not even sure what kind of reaction you’re hoping for. 

“What’s his name?” he asks instead, his own voice quiet. You roll your eyes and shrug your shoulders.

“Why?” You hate how defeated you sound. “What does it matter?” He clenches at your words and he rolls his neck in the smallest circle before looking back to you.

“C’mon, just…” he starts harshly, but falters when he sees you. His hand reaches up and his thumb strokes across the tear streak on your cheek. “Just give me that?” There’s a desperation in his voice that makes you ache.

“Ollie,” you finally tell him. “Short for Oliver.” His brow furrows and his lips tilt up in just the slightest way. When you involuntarily smile, you realize his hand is still hovering near your face. “I remembered you liked that name.” He sighs, giving in and letting his hand cradle your cheek gently. You want to push him away, but instead you find yourself melting into his touch.

“You’re such a bitch.” It’s said without malice and he stops trying to withhold his smile.

“So are you,” you say without missing a beat. He leans in to be closer to you and your hands find the edges of his leather coat, the zipper teeth biting into your hands. 

“I do miss that spitfire mouth of yours,” he admits.

You hate how much you miss him, how easily he can make you want to forget every awful thing he’s ever done. You told yourself for years that what you had was a one-night stand, that neither of you cared for the other. And then he shows up and unravels the delusion you held onto in order to keep yourself sane. 

“Why’d you do it, Billy?” It’s the question that’s been burning at the back of your throat since he left. He grimaces and lowers his eyes to the floor.

“You needed out. You were ready to move on from all of it.” He leans down further, presses his forehead to yours and groans. “But you weren’t gonna leave me. And you… God dammit, you deserved more.” He pulls himself away from you and leaves the space in front of you cold. He starts pacing your living room again, footsteps heavy. “You wanted the white picket fence bullshit. And I wanted ya to have it.” He stops, facing away from you and brings his hand over his face. “I didn’t intend on fucking ya.” There’s an honesty there that you know he doesn’t like showing. “I was going to say goodnight and leave your room and just be gone. But then…”

But then you had grabbed his hand and asked if everything was alright and before you knew it, his lips were crashing down to yours and you were both tumbling back into your motel bed, years of bottled up passion and feelings pouring out. It had been the happiest you had felt in years. Until you woke up the next morning and it all came crashing down.

“Do you regret it?” you ask softly. “Any of it?” He pauses before answering, approaching your mantle once more. 

“Do you?” The bastard could never just answer a question. His fingers trace a frame that’s holding a picture of Ollie’s school picture.

“I don’t regret him.” It’s not a direct answer but it needs to be said. He nods firmly to himself before turning away and walking back towards your front door.

“They’re waiting on me,” he says gruffly, a flimsy excuse to make his exit. You follow him this time, not wanting him to leave yet.

“Butcher,” you stop him with his hand on the knob, but you can’t think of a single thing to say. There’s really nothing more left to discuss. It’s not like he’s going to stay and you sure as shit aren’t going to ask him to. So you sigh and ask instead, “What information did you guys need?” He puts his fake smile back on.

“Don’t worry about it, love.” He straightens out and his eyes clear, slipping back into business. “I told ‘em not to come here anyways. Was still trying to push them off your porch when you answered the door.”

“Look, if it’ll help you finish all of this then I’ll give you the information I have.” You shrug casually, but he sees right through it and catches that hopeful glint behind it. He shrinks again and his voice gets low, regretful.

“You know when this is finished… I probably won’t still be around.” You press your lips together and nod, the hope squashed right out of you. He was going to finish this plan even if it killed him. And it probably would. Watching the ground, you hear him open the front door. “Take care of the little bugger. I’ll make sure no one comes to bother you again.”

And just like that, he’s gone again, leaving you just as alone as he did last time.


End file.
